Names were changed in this article to preserve privacy.
My semesters here at UR seem to follow the same general pattern. The first period can best be characterized by uninhibited optimism. During this stage, I go to bed and wake up early, take care of myself and do all the things my mom spent the first 18 years of my life teaching me. This generally lasts around a week.
I refer to the second stage as “the grind.” This stage entails hard work—blood, sweat and tears.
The third stage, by far the most ominous, is what I like to call the reality stage.
By this point, finals are around the corner, and I’ve probably fallen short of the unrealistic standards I set for myself at the beginning of the semester. I begin to turn to myself in stress-induced self-depreciation and blame.
This year, something is different. Something’s happened that has changed me. This semester, I’ve been thinking less about where I’ve failed, and more about how far I’ve come. This semester, I’ve been focused less on myself, and my perspective has changed.
This semester, I made a friend.
“Justin, I drowned today.” he says one day, struggling to wedge a size-five shoe onto his foot.
“You didn’t drown!” I respond.
“Uh huh, I did for sure. How can you tell I didn’t?”
“Trust me, I can tell.”
Every Monday afternoon from 2 p.m. – 4 p.m., I volunteer at an elementary school in the city through UR’s Students Helping Honduras club, assisting with the after school swim program. My friend’s name is Mason; he’s five years old—one of the youngest in the program—and he’s slightly less than buoyant.
“Mason, get your hand off the wall! You have a life jacket on!” an instructor yells.
“But…but…I can’t—the water’s too thick and I don’t wanna drown again,” he sobs, his hand latched onto the side of the pool like a tiny vice grip.
“Breathe, Mason,” I say. “We’re not gonna let anything happen to you.”
I don’t think the others really understand Mason. The older boys are quite rambunctious, beating up on each other every time the instructors and I turn our backs, but Mason is different. He’s young—he stays out of the fray and keeps to himself. He’s a little bit slower than the others, always the last in and out of the locker room, the last to take to the water and always a little bit out in space.
I see a bit of myself in Mason. He might not always be the quickest learner, but every week, he gets just a little bit better.
“Mason, let’s see if we can keep our hands off the wall for just thirty seconds…can you count to thirty?”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles.
“Alright! One…Two… Three…Good! Keep going! Four…Five…”
As we walk back to where his mother waits after a recent practice, Mason turns to me.
“Justin, hold my hand!”
“Why?”
“Cause you’re my best friend!”
I smile and comply with his request.
“Mason, you know I can’t be here next week. I have a big test, remember?”
“Awwww. I’ll be sad…you gonna do good?”
“I’ll do fine Mason. I’m going to do just fine.”
Fraumeni is a member of the class of 2017.
